


Point of Contact

by sansone



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, just some light romance between our favorite grouch and Kate, this fic has an admittedly ridiculous setup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansone/pseuds/sansone
Summary: Gibbs & co take part in a contact improvisation workshop to build some trust. Dance shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Caitlin Todd
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	Point of Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello, hope y'all are doing okay. I've decided to repost some of my old work from FanFiction.net here -- hopefully it gives you a smile in these uncertain times.

She can't believe they are doing it on a mat. _Alright, fine,_ on a mat no longer, as they have moved to the floor, which is so, _so_ hard and _shit,_ if one thing's for sure, she'll have bruises come the next morning. _See,_ Gibbs likes motion and action and being on top; passive he doesn't do, neither does he like guidance and that's a problem. Before long he is rolling them over and he is hovering above her once more, retaining that one point of contact, hip to hip, torso to torso, boob to... _Well._ At least they're not reenacting the Titanic like Tony and Tim. She can see – out of the corner of her eye – Tony hoisting McGee up into the air and poor Tim bracing himself on the other agent's shoulders, holding on for dear life.

– and it's all the Director's fault.

When they came to work on a Saturday, they were expecting to engage in close combat training, not in – _definitely not_ _in_ – suspicious activities in close, very close proximity. Contact improvisation as their instructor Gary, a 20-year old yogi sporting a mohawk and quite the number of tattoos, told them was all about _exploration of movement through improvisation._ And apparently contact, lots of it (or very little, depending on how you define _lots_ and _little_ ). Kate was sure she'd blushed the whole red spectrum, from pink to crimson, between Gibbs approaching her and touching his wrist to hers, leading her into a simple exercise and releasing her hand as they changed partners – _at last_. She'd probably have turned purple if the contact had been more – just, _more._

Morrow was of course insistent that it'd do them some good, help build that trust, but Kate still can't figure out what good can contact improvisation do – unless the point was to make her painfully aware of how toned her boss' body actually is. But she didn't want to know that – she already knew that – and feeling up his pectorals – by accident! – was doing nothing for her crush (and the null chances of anything ever happening).

About one thing Morrow was right, though; her hopes for trusting Tony were once again crushed when she let go, leaned back and didn't fall in his arms, but just _fell_. Neither his excuses nor his chatter about silver linings – _but at least I didn't drop you on your head, Kate. Think about that._ – could convince her that the real reason for his carelessness wasn't the blonde in tight yoga pants, beating the crap out of an inflated dummy (and of DiNozzo if she were to actually see him gaping after her).

Thankfully, Gary insisted on a partner change and she was soon in the hands of a very nervous, yet very cautious Tim – for several minutes before she felt a tap on her shoulder and she turned, finding herself face to face with Gibbs who was rubbing his injured head and glaring at DiNozzo who was, conversely, making headway down the hall, yelping incoherent words and what sounded like, _Ice, ice! On it, boss!_

After that point, Gibbs was not leaving her side and she couldn't help but feel pleased – he _did_ trust her. Even now when he is about to be lifted, – a little break from all the rolling and accidental touches and contact that felt too good in all the right places – he is not chewing her ear off about being careful. Because he knows that when she pulls her knees to her chest, when she extends her arms up, palms open to him, she is ready, ready to share his body weight and _try that damn airplane lift._

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," Gibbs says, stretching a little before lowering himself to where she's lying on the mat.

He places his hands on her open palms and she takes a deep breath before squeezing his fingers and murmuring, "Let's do this thing, partner."

Gibbs doesn't need any more words of encouragement; he leans forward, resting his hips on her knees, and for a moment everything goes still because _fuck,_ she may very well drop him and let him fall flat on his face. But she doesn't and she could swear that was, _Good job, Kate,_ that she heard coming from him; not from Gary, but from him, Gibbs – a compliment. Sure, they are probably making fools out of themselves right now – she can almost hear Tony teasing them, teasing _her_ the next day – but it feels good to share even that little point of contact with him, to know that if he moves, they are screwed, if she moves, they are screwed, yet if they hold still, they can be steady as one.

And then she sneezes. Balance is a tricky thing and the lack of it, _well,_ it leads to Gibbs on top of her. He is crushing her, his weight is almost too much to bear, but she can't help herself (it's a reflex!) – she wraps her arms around him.

It's shock, that's what it is, that keeps him from rolling off her, from running away screaming, from going all Rule 12 on her because she is hugging him and that's not part of the exercise, _no._ Kate bites her lip, but giggles nonetheless. The more she thinks about their current predicament, about Gibbs' eyes wide with surprise, the funnier it all seems and the louder she laughs. After a few seconds, he shakes his head and surrenders to the moment, nuzzling her neck, his voice making her shiver.

"Evil woman. You could have just asked for a hug." _God,_ it dropped down an octave right here.

Before she can slap that filter on her mouth, the words flow out, freely, carelessly, "You don't strike me as the cuddly type, Gibbs."

"Doesn't hurt to ask, agent." It's as though he presses his lips to the side of her neck then, but that's not right – that'd be a kiss, and Gibbs is not a kisser either. It's her imagination that conjures tactile hallucinations, that's what it is. Right?

Soon after, Gibbs is rolling them over until she is the one lying on top. She'd get up, really she will, but Gary finds the perfect moment to join them, a huge grin on his face and hands on his hips.

"Good job, fellas. Wonderful emotion, covered the slipup really well! Wanna give it a try with the music?"

* * *

When Kate wakes up the next morning, she is too sore to move and to top that off, her bruises have now formed what looks like a nebula cluster on her hips. _Lovely._ Still, she puts on a tank top and shorts and heads out for the NCIS gym – _yes, on a Sunday_ – because truly, more pain trumps all pain and you feel better after a workout, no?

Before heading inside, she stops by the locker room to drop off her stuff. She doesn't hear him, okay; doesn't hear his footsteps, doesn't hear the alleged _Kate,_ he later claims to have called out. She only feels someone's hands on her hips, and then her reflexes kick in and she is turning, fist gaining momentum en route to the bastard's jaw, but then – _then_ , the bastard is Gibbs.

She is at a loss for words, and he is smirking. _Damn it,_ if there ever were a time she'd Gibbs-smack Gibbs, that'd be it. He scared the be—

"Good instincts, Agent Todd," he says, his hands still on her hips, and she winces. His grip is not even firm, but the very contact has her on the edge of a whimper and she doesn't – she _can't_ , not in front of...

But he can see the face she is making, and he pulls back. Then he asks, _no,_ demands, "Let me see, Kate."

There is no point in arguing, no point in being embarrassed (although she can feel the color rising in her cheeks). With a sigh, she pulls up the edge of her top, revealing the angry bruises.

For a moment, he is simply looking, examining each cluster, with the skilled eye of someone who is set on making it better, one way or another, and this is when Kate realizes she trusts him. She might be blushing a Harvard crimson, her heart might be doing the Hummingbird dance ( _hope is the thing with feathers!)_ , but she knows that when his fingers trace a contour on her hip, when his thumb soothes her skin, he means well. And she trusts him.

His touch is delicate and she shivers. She can't wrap her head around the sensation; his fingers are skilled, but hardened, rough but gentle. She wants to cuddle him under a blanket on a cold autumn day, share a cuppa – tea, not coffee – and hear him grumble. She wants to make him beg for mercy – when she tickles him to death, when she ties him to her bed. She wants them to laugh, bicker, fight, grow apart and grow together, make up – _love._ She can't have any of that.

"Kate?"

She looks up and his concern is almost too much. He wipes away the tear that is trickling down her cheek.

"Okay? Did that hurt – I didn't – "

"I'm okay, Gibbs, it's just – _I'm_ just – I'm sorry, I didn't mean –"

He doesn't let her finish. His lips are on her mouth, his fingers are tangled in her hair and she, _she_ is being punk'd, _damn it_. Because if she isn't, that'd mean Gibbs is kissing her – that'd mean, when he pulls her closer, when he makes sure there is no one point of contact, but infinitely many, is because he wants that. Not because his fingers are possessed by evil spirits, but because he is an artist, a dare-devil, painting the _fucking_ Himalayas on her lower back. She remembers her first kiss and how poor Jimmy Coulter took off his glasses, and bumped his nose on the way to her lips, how she giggled and he blushed and how _terribly_ disappointed she was by the kiss, by kissing, _period._ It was overrated, and she didn't want any of it, yet now, _now_ all she wants is for Gibbs to not stop kissing her; she wants him to know that when she gasps, when she curls her fingers around his arm, and grips him tight, that means, _I like the R-rated things you're doing to my neck_ and _yes, I have a scarf, don't worry._ It's ridiculous how wrong 12-year old Kate was, how utterly clueless she was about the real world – _Oh God,_ he found that spot – and how she underestimated the power of experience and care and skill, skill that messed with her sensitive skin and even a kiss on the nose – each eyelid, the cheek, the corner of her mouth – made her go weak at the knees. It's when he goes down on her – _stop right there! Not what you're thinking –_ to kiss her bruises, to make it better, she knows he's a keeper.

He stands up and meets her eye, and she can see his doubt. She can see the question – _am I in trouble? are we in trouble? –_ flash through his mind before she takes him in her arms, and tucks her chin at his shoulder. She wants to say, _I'm pretty sure that should be made illegal in all fifty states,_ but can't find the words, can't find the voice for that. So she holds him in silence, a silence he – for once – is willing to interrupt.

"I kissed you."

Kate giggles. "You did."

"I'm – should I be? – I'm not."

"Nope." She shakes her head and feels his chest expand, feels his sigh tickle her neck. "Neither am I." He laughs and she presses a kiss to his shoulder.

"Now what?"

"How about I buy you coffee, Gibbs?"


End file.
